It was Dalya's way
of looking at me
that warmed me
to the core,
(some place
outside Oslo) ,
we shared a cake
and ate with forks,
I was remembering
the night she crept
into my tent,
(the Aussie guy
and gone to the tent
of the Yorkshire lass) ,
and began to undress
in the small confines
of the tent,
and I lay there
watching and waiting,
(beat old
fashion dating) ,
her small breasts
tight and taut,
her slim figure,
and in the semi dark
I tried to fathom
lower down,
but she lay beside me
and we embraced.
This cake
is to die for,
she said,
forking in
the last morsel.
How about
some more?
Of course,
I said,
trying to recall
what it was I saw.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem